


Some Profane Perfume

by threewalls



Series: Schirra [21]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: 704 OV, Anal Play, Community: come_shots, F/M, Interspecies, Kink Negotiation, Rozarria, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-31
Updated: 2009-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:09:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>Balthier smelt of magicite and machine oil, and after two weeks confined to the Strahl to maintain a discreet presence in Furnaldo as they planned their next job, he had come to smell less like his own species than Fran cared to admit that she noticed.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Profane Perfume

**Author's Note:**

> Written with thanks to lynndyre for beta. Written for DW's "come_shots" community and the theme: "saying yes".

Balthier smelt of magicite and machine oil, and after two weeks confined to the Strahl to maintain a discreet presence in Furnaldo as they planned their next job, he had come to smell less like his own species than Fran cared to admit that she noticed. It was so more and more as he undressed, her sweat coating his skin like the top note of some profane perfume. Fran also smelt the hume on her own skin, and it made her hunger.

She and Balthier had layered the stripped elements of their bunks in a pile over the cleared lower deck: mattresses, sheets, pillows and blankets. Her bike balanced against the farther wall, they lowered the heatshades on the viewscreen upstairs and set the air conditioning to a mere balmy Dalmascan heat compared to the baking Rozarrian desert outside; the engine had to vent somewhere. Outside in Furnaldo, this time of day would be _siesta_.

As their bodies had tangled, her legs spread straddling his. Balthier's clever hands roved over her sweat-slick back, his clever mouth hot and soft and sharp on her nipples, on her collarbone, on the arch of her neck. His hands were free, while Fran needed her arms to balance above him. She could tell on his face when he noticed this, the glint in his eyes and the slowing of his hands. But it was too hot today for a fast coupling, the heat making her skin itch for touch but taking away the urge to move. Fran licked over his lips, into his mouth, tasting his groans of pleasure. Even his hair smelt good.

One of Balthier's hands was stroking the furred point of her tail the way he would stroke his own cock. He spread her buttocks, his fingers sliding in the sweat collected in the crease. Fran sat up onto her calves, wedging his cock between her cheeks. Balthier moulded her flesh closed around him; Fran moved and it was almost, almost and nowhere near enough.

"Oh, you like that?" Balthier asked, between purposefully measured breaths.

Fran ground her hips down against him, wanting, wanting, sliding in her own fluids against his abdomen. Balthier's grip on her tail tightened, a steady touch around the base, where the fur on her tail became barer skin. His other hand reached between them, fingertips curving up in where she was wet.

Fran panted, tried to spread her thighs ever wider. She put her hands behind her, leaning back, canting her hips so that Balthier's fingers could thrust deeper. Her tail rubbed against his cock. Fingers and cock, she wanted them both, to be so full and moving.

The pads of his fingers behind her stroked lightly over her skin, around her tail, beneath her tail. Balthier did this sometimes, never more than teasing caresses, never mentioning the obvious, never asking for more. When he thought no one was looking, he stared at her tail ornament, at the hindquarters of other hume men. Fran layered her hand on his, pressing her fingertip on his, pressing in. Sweat, heat and desire left her body opening easily, sensation both strange and sweet, but Balthier's hand tensed rigid.

"Fran--?"

Balthier's cock was hard against her, but that meant nothing when his voice sounded like that. She wanted him like this, too much, right now; Fran couldn't trust herself to listen for the acceleration of his heartbeat or whether he smelt more of desire or fear. They smelt too much of her own desire, distracting. Fran let go of Balthier's hand; he put his hands, both hands, resting lighting on her hips. She tried not to whimper with emptiness.

"You do that and someone might think you wanted something back there," he said.

Balthier had sat up against her. Faces close so that they could talk; impossible not to rock her hips slow, rubbing her aching breasts against his chest. Fran wrapped her arms over his shoulders, trailing her nails down the muscles of his back.

"I do," Fran said. "Your cock."

Balthier's pupils flared wide and dark. Saying the words made the muscles of Fran's tailhole clench, nerves alight but lacking friction and touch. It was not viera to speak desires openly, and those outside the Wood were not so different. Balthier was a rare hume to ask questions, to want to speak so much during the act. He confused her, in this as so many things, that his reflexes said he never expected directness, was seldom direct himself, but received it so well.

"Will you--" Partners, Fran thought, pausing to search for the right words. We are partners also in this. "Do you want to fuck me?"

Heartbeats, seconds, a minute: Balthier looked at her face, hands smoothly stroking the small of her back and did not yet speak. Fran wanted to push down his shoulders and mount him, somewhere, anywhere, but soon-- but perhaps he would freeze and even with her blood pooling pulsing low and hot between her legs, Fran did not want that. His body language said several contradictory things, frustrating, but not unusual. Fran could see the moment Balthier made his decision, a minute relaxing in the tension of his smile.

"Oh, I want to." His voice still sounded almost like laughing, like all this could be a joke if she wanted it to. "Just a trifle surprised that you want it from the other side. I-- wouldn't, and I've tried it."

"So have I," Fran said. "I like it, when it's done well. That's why I want you."

"Flatterer," he said. But his scent was changing, fear moment by moment evaporating and revealing the underscent of desire and finally, finally, his hands slid back to her buttocks, cupping them in his palms, kneading. "You'll need to let me up for the sundries."

Fran watched Balthier step up to the Strahl's upper level, admiring how the stairs offered a fine view of the toned muscles of his legs, and the swing of his cock and balls from below. She spread the sheets out again, flattening the wrinkles with her hands, and arranged the pillows. Fran watched Balthier descend over her shoulder, facing him with the slim, white point of her raised tail.

"Thank you for the additional distraction, Fran."

The salve Balthier brought down smelt of chemicals. He asked if she would prefer something else; Fran shook her head. She rested her head on her hands, inhaling the smell of their mixed sweat on her skin. The salve was cold, but warmed quickly in the heat of her body. Of course his salve was good salve, which stayed slippery past when sweat would not. Hume-made sex-salve, not viera-made: Fran knew why her long-nailed sisters had never shared this with her, but did not understand, did not ask after the hesitance of humes. Balthier's long fingers twisted and twisted inside her, ripples of hard bones and soft flesh.

Fran could feel the stretch in her thighs, but it was good, so good, to kneel so spread, pleasure uppermost.

"Oh, you do like this," Balthier said, as close to purring as was possible. He was bent over her as he played with her hole, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her skin. But Fran wanted his weight on her, wanting him fucking her. Now.

"Two is enough."

"Are you sure? I don't need to hurt you."

"You won't hurt me." Fran reached blindly backwards, found his leg; he touched her hand, fingers sticky. "I know my body. I know when I am ready."

"Can't keep a lady waiting."

Balthier took his hands away. Fran pushed up to her elbows to see, but her body blocked all but the concentration of his face. She heard the rip of a rubber-scented paper packet, and dropped back down, the side of her face against the sheets. Fran reached behind to hold her arse spread.

"--Fuck, Fran."

"Yes," she said, and he did.

.  
.  
.

"Do you want the shower?" Balthier asked.

Fran opened her eyes to look at him. She had not noticed he left their nest of bedding, still felt stretched as though he had not left her; her mind must be drifting. She was lying flat and very comfortable.

"I don't want to move," she said.

Balthier came back with a dry towel and a smaller, wet one. Fran curved into the caresses of his hands.

"I don't think I've worn you out like this before," he said.

"You're fishing for compliments," she replied. "Well-deserved compliments."

Fran let him help her sit up. He had also brought a water canteen, from which Fran drank gratefully. Balthier's hands smelt faintly of soap, but his chest behind her did not. He smelt satisfyingly like sex, like she did, like the sheets did.

Fran turned her head to kiss him, the tip of her tongue between her lips. The angle was awkward and his mouth was dry. She handed him the canteen, and watched him drink. By the time he was finished, Fran felt like moving just enough to pull him back down to the mattress. Their kisses were wetter, slower.

Lying on Balthier was more comfortable.


End file.
